


it feels like years since it's been clear

by blobfish_miffy



Series: little darlin' [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John got shot but survives, Linda is a darling, Panic, Phone Calls & Telephones, Upset Everyone, Upset George, Upset Paul, author has feelings and all of them are pain, part of the Little Darlin' universe, paul is a mess, so is George but he hides it better, this is the phonecall that sets everything in motion?, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: "Paul?” he repeats when it stays silent on the other end. He swallows, bites down on his lip. “Mate? You there?”“Yes,” Paul says, and there’s a shaky inhale. His voice is trembling. “Sorry for the hour, George.”***George Harrison gets a rather upsetting phonecall.





	it feels like years since it's been clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rufusrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/gifts).



> A small, unedited, quick drabble inspired by the conversation [rufusrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/rufusrant) and I had a couple of hours ago. Apparently, we've got a lot of Feelings about these musical insect bois and most are pain. Lovely. And thus, during half a bottle of 7-up and at least three albums of sad music, here we are. 
> 
> Pain, pain, pain, here it comes.  
> (i mean like there's no death or anything but this was painful to write. so. whatever. cool)

The ringing of the telephone echoes through their bedroom, cutting through the dusty thickness associated with dark and early mornings. It’s a sharp sound, waking him from his slumber effectively. George groans, lowly, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow; Olivia rises with a sigh.

The light is suddenly on and as she lifts the duvet, a sliver of cold air hits his arm. He shivers and blinks. The sky outside is still a dark blue, but the light is a harsh golden-copper-yellow mix that burns his eyes. He grimaces, turning on his side with a huff. The numbers of the alarm clock on his bedside table glow red with _4:59 A.M._

Annoyance floods his body. “Who the _fuck-”_ he croaks, but he’s shushed with a sharp hiss from his wife. She walks silently towards the telephone - _way_ too far from the bed, in George’s opinion, but she wanted it there - and answers it mid-ring with a soft and gentle _“Harrison residence”,_ before she falls completely silent. 

The sudden silence is almost like a slap to the face, and he’s actually awake now, squinting at Olivia as she listens to the person at the other end. Her posture is rigid, and when she turns he can see the worry in her eyes and around her mouth. She lifts her hand and curls her fingers, beckoning him closer. 

George sits up straight. The duvet falls from his upper body, and the cold air nestles itself against his bare skin. “Liv-”

 _“Come here,”_ she hisses, and she’s a bit paler than before. “It’s for you. _Get over here,_ George…!”

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, and he climbs out of bed. The floor is like ice against his feet and he suppresses another shiver as he slowly walks closer, slightly apprehensive. “Who-”

She pushes the phone against his cheek before he can so much answer, and walks back towards the bed. 

_“Geo-”_

George almost drops the phone. 

“Paul?” he asks incredulously, glancing at a pale Olivia before turning towards the window. The way Paul said his name wasn’t - _wasn’t normal,_ and he immediately feels worried. Paul doesn’t _do_ this, calling at ungodly times in the morning, or calling _either way._ Paul drops by whenever he’s in the neighbourhood, whenever he’s got the time for a cuppa and an awkward hug and some small complaint. He’d cursed him out, last time, after reading _I Me Mine-_

But this doesn’t sound like anger. 

“Paul?” he repeats when it stays silent on the other end. He swallows, bites down on his lip. “Mate? You there?”

 _“Yes,”_ Paul says, and there’s a shaky inhale. His voice is trembling. _“Sorry for the hour, George.”_

“I don’t-” he pauses, frowning. _He’s been crying,_ George realises with a start, _but why would he call me..._ “Is somethin’ the matter, Paul?”

And Paul starts to cry. 

He’s sobbing. Genuinely sobbing, with hiccups and shivering exhales and soft whimpers. It sounds heart-wrenching because Paul doesn’t really _cry_ in George’s mind. He _doesn’t:_ the last time he actually cried, that George knows of, was when John announced the divorce, and George wasn’t there. Paul, he realises, hasn’t cried in his presence since they must’ve been young teens. Pre-Hamburg, maybe, or even during that bloody hurricane, though that was later, much later.

George closes his eyes and leans against the wall, listening to Paul’s painful breakdown. He’s impatient, he can feel it: it’s bubbling somewhere, gathering in his veins and making its way through his limbs. He wants to _know_ what’s got Paul so terribly upset because it’s both early and because he’s just curious and needs to know. “Paul-”

 _“John’s been shot,”_ Paul says - no, _sobs,_ and George almost drops the phone again.

A cold feeling spreads through his body; the cold of the floor might as well have soaked into his feet and easily climbed up to colonise the rest of his body. His heartbeat quickens, pulse thudding in his ears.

He’s been shot. _John._ John’s been shot _._ John Lennon. His _friend mate estranged-buddy_ John Lennon. His _“Hey mate, I don’t like what you wrote so fuck you”_ John Lennon. 

His _brother_ John Lennon. 

There are a thousand thoughts running through his head but none of them is coherent, each fragmented and grammatically incorrect and written in a cursive he is entirely unable to decipher. His skin feels as if there are ants making their way through his veins, eating away at his flesh, and he starts to bite on his thumb. His eyes are burning. _“Is he alright?”_ is what he wants to ask, _“is he dead? Has he been killed? What’s his current state? What hospital is he in? Who shot him? Is he alright? Is he fucking alright?”_

But the words can’t seem to pass his lips, stuck somewhere under his tongue or somewhere halfway down his throat and he swallows thickly.

“Oh,” is what he says instead. “Oh.” A pause. Then: “Is it bad?”

Which is a stupid bloody question, because _of course_ it’s bad. Paul wouldn’t have been crying had it not been bad. Paul wouldn’t even have _called_ him had it not been bad. But Paul _is_ crying, he’s almost hyperventilating and it’s 5 in the fuckin’ morning and he’s on the phone with him and he’s sobbing _so much_ and George bites into the skin around his thumbnail until his teeth click shut and the taste of blood floods his mouth.

Paul inhales sharply, with a shudder. _“I don’t know,”_ he says softly, panicky, breathing uneven and quick. _“I don’t know Geo, and I’m so worried and I don’t_ know _but I want to-_ need to _know and Yoko called me and she said he’s been shot in the back and that there were five shots and-”_

“Alright,” George answers, and it feels like he’s standing outside of his body, listening to himself from a distance. There’s a wobble in his voice where he doesn’t want one. “Alright, Paulie, I need you to breathe for me, alright?”

 _“I am breathing!”_ Paul cries, though it’s closer to a shriek.

George is unfazed. “Is Linda there?” he asks, “is Lin next to you?”

_“Y-yes-”_

“Is she holding you? Is her hand on your shoulder or arm, or leg?”

_“Wha-”_

“Is she?” he demands, and he feels like he sounds like his father. “Paul, is she? Is she holding you?”

Another faltering breath. _“Yes.”_

“Good. She’s there, alright? Are you sitting?”

_“I- yes.”_

“What more can you feel?”

 _“The phone in my hand and- and against my face,”_ A pause, another breath that could be mistaken for a sob, or the other way round. _“The- the temperature of the floor under me. Lin’s hand on my arm. The cord of the phone around my little finger.”_

“What can you hear?”

 _“Lin’s breathing. The clock. The kids waking up,”_ Paul swallows audibly, _“your voice.”_

“Good.” There’s a silence between them, not necessarily uncomfortable, and George slides down the wall until he sits, tucking his feet underneath him. He feels incredibly tired yet unbelievably active, for some reason, and his mind spins. “Are you breathing, Macca?” he doesn’t know why he’s asking, but he needs to know somehow. Needs the reassurance. “Are you there?”

 _“I am,”_ Paul says softly, and there’s another pause. George leans his head against the wall, resuming destroying his bottom lip with his teeth out of sheer anxiety. It feels surreal, this, sitting on the ground with Paul on the other end, both upset because _John’s_ been shot. When Paul speaks up again, George half-expects him to be crying, but something’s changed in his voice. _“I’m going to go to the airport in half an hour, Geo,”_ he says, speech strong and sturdy, unswayable. _“I’m going to fly to New York.”_

“I- you are?”

 _“Yes.”_ Another pause. _“You too?”_

Though Paul’s voice sounds rather firm again, there’s still a tremble detectable. A little tremble of anxiety, of insecurity, and George scrambles upright at the sound. His heart pounds against his ribcage and he himself suddenly can’t really breathe. He feels lightheaded and drags his free hand down his face. “Yes. Of course,” he stumbles over the words. “Of course. Yes. I’m coming. I-”

He looks at the bed. Olivia is sitting on the messy sheets, a curious Dhani in her arms. She looks at him questioningly, raising an eyebrow as a mother would, and he clenches his jaw. “Later, though,” he says into the receiver. “Later. I need to buy a ticket first, and pack-”

 _“I get it, I get it, the kids-”_ Paul babbles into the telephone, and by the sound of it Linda is packing a bag for him in the background. George can’t even smile at the thought of lovely, capable Linda securely packing for _usually-the-most-organised-being-on-the-planet_ Paul. It’s like the muscles in his face cannot muster a smile, as if they’re broken. _“It’s fine, I’ll fly alone - might need to gather my thoughts anyway, bawl me eyes out in the taxi-”_

“Yeah,” George croaks, “that. Is- Is Ritchie-”

 _“I don’t know, he hasn’t called, I-”_ there’s a small sound in the background as if something has fallen, and Paul pauses as he listens to what Linda has to say. His answer is unintelligible. _“I’ll see you then,”_ Paul then mutters into the receiver, about a minute later. He once again sounds so firm, so collected - yet there’s still a waver in the words, a hint at the fragility of his demeanour, at the rainstorm bubbling below the surface. _“Right?”_

George swallows. “You will.”

 _“Okay.”_ A brief moment of silence before Paul sighs again, and suddenly the connection is lost. The electronic beeps are almost shocking, a stark difference to Paul who, even in tears, sounds like he’s singing.

George lowers the phone, and Olivia is next to him. Dhani reaches out in his two-year-old glory, dark eyes gigantic, and George takes him in his arms, presses the boy against his chest, buries his nose in the toddler's soft hair. 

“I have to leave, in a couple of hours,” he mumbles, trying his utmost best at keeping himself composed. “John’s been shot.” His voice trembles and he sighs harshly through his nose, blinks the tears from his eyes. “Apparently it’s bad. I have to, I've got to-”

“I understand,” Olivia replies, because she always does. She understands because she’s kind and she’s smart and too good for him, and George almost cries when she reaches out to place a hand on his cheek. Dhani whines softly. “I’ll help you pack.”

He’s out the door by sunrise. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!  
> xxx Miffy


End file.
